65) Southern Brush-tailed Rock Wallaby

Petrogale penicillata

If you drive south from Canberra, through the neighbourhood of Weston Creek along Cotter Road, past the enormous antenna dishes of the Canberra Deep Space Communication Complex, past the village of Tharwa, you’ll get to a place called Tidbinbilla Nature Reserve.  Neither forest nor zoo, Tidbinbilla is a series of open-range enclosures and walking paths in a narrow valley between steep and heavily wooded hills.  In Tidbinbilla you’ll find all kinds of animals native to south-eastern Australia – those that are abundant in the wild, and those that are at or beyond the point of local extinction.  If the animals are not free to leave, they nonetheless appear to be utterly content, and walking through the fifty or so square kilometres of the reserve it’s possible to observe – or often, fail to observe – several species in what is, but for the fences, a natural habitat.

Tidbinbilla is more than just a tourist destination, though: its main and most important role is as a breeder of endangered animals.  Over many years the reserve has built up a store of expertise that has resulted in, for instance, 900 eggs of the endangered and spectacularly beautiful Northern Corroboree Frog (Pseudophryne pengilleyi) being laid in the breeding season of 2008-09 alone.

For anyone in Canberra with an interest in the bush – and in the “bush capital”, that’s most people – going to Tidbinbilla is an essential and familiar experience.  Whether it’s on a school excursion, or taking overseas visitors, or just for pleasure, Tidbinbilla is as much a part of Canberra – removed though it is – as the more familiar and clichéd sights of Parliament House, or the War Memorial, or the Mt Stromlo Observatory.

The reserve is particularly and justly proud of its success in breeding the at-risk Southern Brush-tailed Rock Wallaby. Through a system of cross-fostering – adopting baby Rock Wallabies out to more common species of Wallaby housed elsewhere in the reserve – Tidbinbilla has overseen the birth of dozens of the animals.  By necessity the Rock Wallabies are kept in a smaller, more forbiddingly fenced enclosure than the other animals: experts at hopping over vertical obstacles, they’re adept at escaping from captivity.  Although Brush-tailed Rock Wallabies are locally plentiful elsewhere, according to Tidbinbilla's website there are estimated to be fewer than 40 of the southern subspecies left in the wild.

The most recent information available from Tidbinbilla’s website announces that the reserve has supplied to the state of Victoria fourteen captive-bred Rock Wallabies which are now ready to be released into the wild.  The species is precariously balanced: once hunted nearly to extinction for their fur, they are now dependant on humans – or we have made ourselves, ironically, their guardians.  Without Tidbinbilla, the species would surely disappear forever, as have so many Australian animals before it.

I don’t know how many times I’ve sat in the back of my parents car as we’ve made the drive out to Tidbinbilla and back again.  When I was a child it must have been at least every couple of years.  But I know with certainty exactly how many times I’ve made the trip in the last decade: through Weston Creek, past the Mt Stromlo Observatory, out through Tharwa and across the Cotter River.  I’ve done it only once since the summer of 2003.

In 2003 Canberra was several years into a drought that would continue for several years more.  Under the clear, bleak sky the city seemed trapped in an eternal summer, and when in January the annual storms came they came without rain.  The eucalypt forests that surrounds Canberra, that everywhere infiltrate and sometimes seems to even engulf Canberra, became so dry that leaves turned to brittle dust underfoot.  When in early January 2003 a dry storm rolled over Namadgi, the National Park that makes up nearly half of the Australian Capital Territory, lightning struck a tree, and without rain to douse the flames a bushfire was started.

The fire was not a secret.  Everyone knew it was there.  But it was remote, and difficult to access, and summer in Australia is a time of fire so this particular one was not treated with undue alarm.  It burned out of control for two weeks, and then, on Saturday the eighteenth of January 2003, when the temperature reached forty degree Centigrade, a ferocious wind blew from behind the fires towards Canberra, and the flames began to move.

In Yarralumla, a long way from the fire-front, I was preparing for an uneventful weekend.  There were rumours of fire, so I had the radio on, but reports were muddled and confusing and so despite the smoke blowing over the city I remained unconcerned.  The family dog, a puppy, had urinated on a rug, so I took the rug outside and hung it on the clothesline and turned the hose on it.  I had no inkling that water might be a precious commodity that day, nor that outside might be a dangerous place to be.

I can’t remember when the first leaves fell, but by the time they began I’m sure it had become clear to everyone that this was not going to be a normal day; that the fires, wherever they were, were not just the grass fires that had burned close to the Australian Mint and the Governor General’s residence the previous summer.  My grandmother had been visiting us from Adelaide that year, and together we’d all – her, me, my brother, and my parents – gone down to Lake Burley Griffin, five minutes walk from my parents’ house, to watch helicopters scoop water up for the purposes of dousing the nearby flames.  That was Christmas, 2001, and we’d been tense but ultimately unconcerned.  On the eighteenth of January 2003, though, my parents were away, on holiday, and my brother was away, at the house of family friends at the other end of Yarralumla, and I was by myself, and worried, because the leaves were starting to fall.

I can remember the leaves vividly, which is strange, because though I know the sky was black with smoke I can barely remember that.  I can remember the sick yellow smoke that clung to the city like a winter fog for the next two weeks; I can remember picking through the remains of a friend’s house in the aftermath of the fires; and I can remember, always, the black leaves.  They fell out of the sky, the long lanceolate leaves of eucalypts: they fell constantly, carried by the wind from fires that were kilometres away, and every one of them was burnt black.  Somewhere in the city, a wildfire was rushing into streets and houses, through forests and woodlands, creating and then riding on cyclonic winds, and as it moved through the wooded areas it wrenched the leaves off the trees and scooped them into the air and hurled them across the city.  They were still hot when they landed.   The cinders of the same great, disjointed forest that we Canberrans embraced city-wide, and built our houses near, and welcomed into the heart of our city.

At some point my parents’ house lost power: in Yarralumla we were safe from the flames, but the electricity sub-station that serviced the suburb was closer to the front and was destroyed.  The same thing happened all over the city.  We were without power for days, I can’t remember how many days, and we had to throw out most of the contents of our fridge: meat, dairy, anything that we couldn’t fit into the medium-sized blue esky that we ate out of for most of the next week.  It was nearly impossible to replace anything: supermarket shelves were stripped bare, with food being bought in vast quantities to feed the many thousands of people taking refuge in various hastily-organised emergency shelters scattered throughout the city.  For several days after the fires there was not a loaf of bread to be found in Canberra; not a litre of milk; no cans or jars of food.  If it wasn’t at an emergency shelter, it was in somebody’s kitchen, feeding a family who had no idea how long they might be without power.

Without power, without television, back in those days before ubiquitous hand-held screens, we relied on the newspaper, the Canberra Times, to give us images of what had happened.  Humans understand an event through images most of all.  Yet the pictures that filled the newspaper on Sunday, the nineteenth, were impossible to comprehend: whole hillsides aglow with fire in the treetops; houses warped and buckled and destroyed; roads – our quiet roads, our empty pristine roads – choked with smoke and embers.  No more colour, anywhere, in our green city: just fearsome orange, and red, and black.  Mt Stromlo observatory was completely gutted, its priceless telescopes destroyed, years of data lost.  There were stories of near-misses – fire-fighters who’d abandoned their vehicle moments before it was consumed by flames; people found running down streets in a panic and bundled into fleeing cars.  Four people were killed as their houses burned around them – only four, astonishingly.  Only four.  Five-hundred houses were destroyed in a city of barely more than 300,000 people.  Most of the houses destroyed were in Weston Creek.

Among those houses were two belonging to families who were old friends of my family – people who were and are friends of mine.  A week after the fires I joined some of those friends at one of those houses – ruined, a scar, a void in the landscape – to try to salvage what we could.  All around us were the bricks and debris of flattened, incinerated houses.  Over the road a house still stood, but its roof was warped and buckled where the howling winds created by the firestorm had lifted the tiles and dropped them back down.  On the lawns in front of all the houses – Canberra’s famous nature strips – tiny daisies still flowered: they were so low to the ground that the fire had passed right over the top of them.

We didn’t find much.  There wasn’t much to find: only ruins.  Unrecognisable twists of metal that we surmised had once been a dishwasher.  A box of darning needles, family heirlooms, still intact.  A sheet of corrugated iron was wrapped like newspaper round a burned-out tree on the hill behind the house.

The other family, my other friends, found a new house, having lost everything they had.  In kindness their friends and acquaintances donated gifts of toys and clothes, chaotically rebuilding lives that had been chaotically destroyed.  The family was my piano teacher; his wife, a pianist; and their three young children.  The children had been carefully raised without television or video games or other impositions upon their imaginations.  When the fire took their house it took everything.  In pity and sympathy and nothing but good wishes, somebody gave them an old PlayStation.  Sometimes the life you’ve made is wrenched away from you.

Out in Tidbinbilla, when the firestorm came raging through the valley, the panicked shrieks of the animals must have been unbearable.  The fire destroyed the forest, and the buildings, and the fences – but too late, the fences.  Of all the countless animals at the reserve, only 25 survived.  In their enclosure, behind their high fence, in the cage that had kept them safe from predators and cars and extinction, all but six of Tidbinbilla’s Brush-tailed Rock Wallabies were killed.  One Koala, still alive but horrifically burned, became a mascot of the reserve in the aftermath of the fire: a sign of resilience; yet a nearly unbearable tragedy, as well.

If you go to the Tidbinbilla Nature Reserve’s website today, you’ll see the following note:

Please be advised that due to a Total Fire Ban declared for the ACT tomorrow Friday 18th January 2013, Tidbinbilla Nature Reserve will be closed to the public.

Today, the 18^th of January 2013, is the tenth anniversary of the Canberra bushfires.  For a few weeks in the summer of 2003 Australia stopped hating Canberra, stopped making it the butt of jokes, and remembered that it was a city full of people with lives no more or less meaningful than the lives of anybody else, no more or less prone to sudden catastrophe.  But eventually the nation moved on, and so did Canberra.  The fires are remembered – but they’re not as well-remembered as they should be.

Image sourced from http://www.abc.net.au/

64) Australian Wood Duck

Chenonetta jubata

The night begins with an excuse: if I go for a walk to the creek, the path will take me past the house of somebody I want to see.  I send her a text message; I ask her if she’d like to join me.  We’ve walked the same route once before.  She replies that she’s not at home, and with that small announcement – less than one-hundred and sixty letters, a smattering of pixels on a screen smaller than the palm of my hand – I’m absolved.  There’s no reason to go for a walk which I never really intended to take and which was only ever an excuse for something else.  If I stay at home and watch television instead nobody will ever know.

Yet there’s a part of me, always, that insists that such subterfuge and deception – however innocent, however innocuous – is somehow corrupting.  There’s a noisy part of my mind that insists that an action, once declared, must be acted on.  So I put on my shoes and I walk towards the creek, down the street, into the cool mid-summer twilight.

I decide to take the high road, left along Clifton Hill’s esplanade and then across the old stone bridge that carries Heidelberg Road across the Merri Creek.  In places such as this, at odd intervals here and in North Fitzroy, the creek cuts a deep gorge and is flanked by cliffs five or ten metres high on either side.  In a recent winter, in a heavy downpour on a poorly lit road at night, a woman missed a corner and drove her car into just such a gorge, injuring herself and killing her elderly mother.  Perhaps I’m thinking of this when I walk along the footpath across the bridge and a car passing barely a metre from me in the other direction has a loud and sudden blow-out: it happens right next to me, and I leap and shout in shock and fright, and when the car stops twenty metres down the road I hesitate and then go to make sure the driver is okay.  She is; she leans across from the driver’s seat and asks me what the damage is.  I look and tell her that her front left tyre is completely ruined.  She asks: and the back?  The back’s fine, I assure her, and she thanks me, and so I feel myself absolved of obligation.  I continue on my walk.

The sound of traffic on Heidelberg Road is ever-present, as is the sound of the Eastern Freeway a kilometre away, but between them is Yarra Bend National Park which in places has the appearance of almost pristine bushland.  On the western fringe of the Park the bike path along which I’m walking skirts across the top of the highest cliff above the Merri Creek: signs warn of danger but at one point a look-out has been built so that walkers and cyclists can gaze at the trickling water below.  That water is at this moment clogged with algae; yet the creek is distant enough that it appears picturesque all the same.  I’m moved to take a photo on my phone, looking north.  Across the creek, to the west, somebody has several years ago carved in the grass of the hillside an enormous representation of a Heron (Ardeidae), like the chalk Horses (Equus ferus) found in the English countryside.  Behind me I hear the usual commotion of Rainbow Lorikeets (Trichoglossus haematodus) flying in screeching formation high in the open air; something moves me to turn and watch them and when I do so I notice the unmistakable shape of a Goshawk (Accipiter) flying above the eucalypts.  Goshawks are predators of small birds, and even this far into summer the Noisy Miners (Manorina melanocephala) and other birds chase it, harassing it in the sky lest it should think to descend into the trees and hunt for their young offspring.

I leave the lookout, trying to chase the Goshawk too in my own restricted, earth-bound way; but by the time I rejoin the bike-path the bird has already disappeared into the trees.  But I’m walking again, anyway, and so I continue, and reaching a point where I might turn back I feel suddenly that to go home now would be too soon, so I continue, along the bike-path, around the corner, under the high concrete arches of the freeway where young Pigeons (Columba livia) are cooing tremulously.

I cross the small footbridge over the Merri Creek adjacent to the freeway; only a few metres to my left is the broad Yarra River.  The water is dark, though at eight PM the sky is still light.  In a large expanse which until only a month ago housed demountable buildings and refurbished shipping containers there is now just bare earth, though grass is starting to regrow.  Just out of site, below the steady roar of Dight’s Falls, bright new metal houses the new fishway which has been completed at last, just when it seemed that it never would be.  Through the grilles you can see the water rushing through ever-narrower chambers, rising gradually but inexorably from the lower river to the elevated water above the falls.  Perhaps fish are passing there already, discovering new routes and mapping them in their minds.

The sound of all that water collapsing in on itself fades quickly as I walk back towards the creek’s ingress.  I find a gravelly ramp down to the water and I squat there, watching a Great Cormorant (Phalacrocorax carbo) stretch its long wings like a scarecrow on the far bank.  I take my eyes off it for just a moment, to play with my phone, to write something on twitter – unthinkable for me only six months ago – and when I look up, inexplicably, silently, the Cormorant has been joined on its log by an Intermediate Egret (Mesophoyx intermedia).

The new bird is in its breeding plumage: great fronds of wispy feathers erupt from beneath its wings, and as the Cormorant folds its black wings and tucks its head to sleep the Egret passes its beak carefully over those brilliant white plumes, putting each filament in order, moving its head down the shaft of each feather again and again until its plumage is tightly zipped back in place.  Down by the water the temperature is dropping and even as I begin to shiver the day-time birds are huddling deep into themselves, nestling in the warmth of their own feathers.

Tiny creatures, fish or insects, unseen, disturb the river from below, and the water is pricked with a thousand shifting holes and interruptions as the surface is broken by miniscule mouths.  From time to time the wind stirs and gives the river goose-pimples.  As the sky slowly becomes pale and then begins to darken, clouds of insects begin to hover above the river, and as I gaze through the swarms towards the Egret and the Cormorant on the far bank it’s as if the birds are being projected on old film stock, rich with speckles and blemishes.

Abruptly, my attention is interrupted by an unfamiliar call: a sort of squelching yelp, a quack and a croak all jumbled together as one.  I look sharply to my left and see gliding down the river, low above the water, from some unseen hidden roost, a Nankeen Night-heron (Nycticorax caledonicus).  It is only the fourth one I have ever seen in my life; only a week and a half earlier I had never seen one at all.  I’m astonished that a bird that long seemed so elusive and unseeable should be so casually flying down the Yarra River.  I’m even more astonished when it alights on the same log already occupied by the Egret and the Cormorant.  They look up briefly from their roosts at the newcomer but return without fuss to their sleeping positions: heads tucked, legs straight, perfectly still.  The Night-heron has been still all day, and now it begins to hunt in its crouching, hunch-backed way, peering intently into the water.

The Night-heron’s activities are just beginning, but every other bird is turning in to roost.  A pair of Australian Wood Ducks swim past me, up stream; a male and a female.  They see me and briefly turn towards me, and for a moment I can see the feverish activity of their legs beneath the water, beneath the serene stillness of their bodies as they glide against the current.  After inspecting me from a slight distance they turn again and continue on their way.  The male is rich chocolate brown and pale grey, and as he swims across the surface of the river, which is now still with evening, the colour of the trees and sky reflected in the dark water match his plumage exactly.

As I watch the birds come and go I have my phone in my hand: some strange new urge is making me share the scene before me, posting on Twitter, crowding all my wonder and delight into so small a space.  A year ago I would have decried just such an action; I would have denounced myself had I been able to see it.  Yet now, unexpectedly, I find that it is the urge to share everything in this odd medium that has kept me rooted to the spot, kept me from wandering away out of boredom, for nearly an hour, as the river ripples and settles around me.  When it gets dark, and I get hungry, I stand up and turn for home, blissfully happy.

Image sourced from http://en.wikipedia.org

63) Eastern Grey Kangaroo

Macropus giganteus

We’re driving to Canberra.  One of my oldest friends, and me.  I don’t drive so I’m keeping her company, letting her talk so she doesn’t fall asleep at the wheel.  It’s a thirty-eight degree day and from Melbourne to Canberra is a nearly seven-hundred kilometre drive.  It’s two days before Christmas; we’re going to our families.

There are Kangaroos everywhere: lying dead and brutalised on the sides of the highway, their bodies sometimes as soft and tranquil as a toy animal but more often their flesh and blood and bones torn and shattered and smeared on the rough bitumen.  Sometimes Australian Ravens (Corvus coronoides) flap listlessly from the corpses but more often the dead animals are alone.  There are so many; too many even for scavengers to make use of.  As my friend and I joke about the numerous kayaks and jet-skis and trailbikes we see being towed up and down the highway we barely mention the marsupial slaughter that constantly confronts us.  They say travel is as much about the journey as the destination but we just want the journey over with.

The Hume Highway is flat and direct, and only Holbrook with its famous submarine is now left unbypassed.  Cars promenade along its main street in both directions; just outside town witches hats mark the starting point of new road works.  Other towns pass as merely names on exit signs, optimistic arrows off the highway: Wodonga; Tarcutta; Thurmoola. When we arrive in Canberra at last we pull over so my friend can take a phone call.  I stare out the passenger-side window, trying not to listen.  In the trees is a shape and it might be a kangaroo or it might be just a pile of sacks and sticks.  If it’s flesh it is so long dead that its form has disappeared into the waving golden grass.  Cars rush past us, their wheels juddering on the small white humps that stud the road, warning of the approach of one of Canberra’s notorious roundabouts.  The shapeless thing in the grass is left abandoned and unnoticed.

On Boxing Day I go with my parents to their holiday house, on the Brogo River near Bega.  With us are two of their oldest friends, visiting from the UK.  They’ve never seen Brogo before; I think at first that they have but I soon learn that I’m wrong.  I spend time with them, and with my parents, but I haven’t been here for months so I spend time alone, too, re-exploring old paths.  Walking up the road from the house to the gate on the morning of the first day I stumble upon a small but healthy group of Kangaroos gathered around an old dam.  On the second night, after everyone’s gone to bed, I hear Boobook Owls (Ninox novaeseelandiae) hooting mo-poke in the full moon and I go searching for them.  I find two; as I approach the first one I disturb an unseen Kangaroo whose thudding footfalls in the scrub panic the owl into flight.  The second owl is not so cautious, and I stare at it for minutes on end.  Its eyes shine dazzlingly bright in the beam of my torch.  As I stare it defecates on the branch below it, a long white spatter, and as a response to my intrusion I can’t fault it.  The next morning I leave the breakfast table when I hear a Superb Lyrebird (Menura novaehollandiae) calling in the gully; I expect it to hear me stumbling towards it and to run shrieking down the hill, but instead it allows me to watch it scratching in the dirt beneath a fig tree.  I almost stop breathing when I see its long, plumed tail trailing behind it.  Usually Lyrebird songs are resonantly loud and accompanied by a dance, the shimmering of that long tail, but this morning, practicing outside the winter breeding season, the bird sings softly to itself as it forages, like somebody whistling while they work.

Our friends from the UK have only a few weeks in Australia so I try to find as many animals as I can for them, but it seems as though every creature I spot is gone by the time I can point it out.  King Parrots (Alisterus scapularis), Spotted Pardalotes (Pardalotus punctatus), Satin Bowerbirds (Ptilonorhynchus violaceus), all fly away.  The two Wedge-tailed Eagles (Aquila audax) that have circled the valley in front of the house for years never appear.  After two days, though, our luck changes: it begins in Bermagui, with two enormous Stingrays (Myliobatoidei) that are patrolling the waterfront where a fisherman is throwing freshly caught fish into the water.  Tourists point and laugh as the man’s small dog tiptoes along the wharf and barks excitedly at the pack of Great Cormorants (Phalacrocorax carbo) and Australian Pelicans (Pelecanus conspicillatus) that scrabble for each scrap of flesh.  That evening, driving back to the house well after dark, we stop for an Eastern Grey Kangaroo that is standing in the middle of the left lane of the road, directly in front of us; it lollops unhurriedly into the bush.  Moments later I spy another standing like a ghost just outside the beam of the headlights – “Kangaroo on the left” I say, hoping to alert our friends, but when my father reacts by immediately pressing the car’s brakes I remember all the dead kangaroos on the side of the Hume; I remember that Eastern Grey Kangaroos are the main cause of traffic accidents back in Canberra.  I watch the edges of the road all the way back to the house.

We all drive back to Canberra the next day; the day after that my old friend and I drive back home.  Back to Melbourne.  My brother is with us now, too.  We notice that the road is new; we see, for the first time, that a week earlier we’d been driving on the old tarmac, and that to double the size of the Hume Highway the government has simply laid down two bright new lanes alongside the old ones.  Now the old road that went in two directions only goes in one; now it’s only the old road that goes to Canberra.

The Kangaroos die as readily on the new road as on the old: their corpses punctuate the long drive once more.  Red Foxes (Vulpes vulpes), too.  We wonder if perhaps there are so many dead animals on the road because there are also, out there in the bush, so many ones that are newly alive.  I recall the scores of Grey Fantails (Rhipidura albiscapa) and other small insectivorous birds I’d seen at Brogo; I recall the recent rain and think, we are in a time of plenty.

We are driving back to Melbourne for the New Year, but we are leaving something behind, too.  It can’t be avoided.  A home is the place that formed you as much as it’s the place you live; leaving Canberra once again, turning away from the dead animals, I’m struck dumb by how unspeakably beautiful the Southern Tablelands are this summer: pale golden grass; distant indigo hills.

Image sourced from http://en.wikipedia.org

62) Common Carp

Cyprinus carpio

A few weeks ago I found myself, somehow, in a conversation about the Thames.  Somebody disparaged the river, and remembering a particular anecdote from a university lecture over a decade ago I took it upon myself to defend the river’s health: the restoration of the Thames, I explained, had been a major success story, and a visitor to London is now likely to see Swans (Cygnus) and other birdlife inhabiting the waterway.  The river may not be pristine, but life has a way of asserting itself.

Nonetheless, “it still looks as dirty as the Yarra”, as my conversational opposite remarked.  The Yarra River, Melbourne’s river, is notoriously brown and muddy; some of that is just its natural condition, but it’s fair to say that nobody in Melbourne would ever consider swimming in it.  At places where the river’s flow brings the water butting up against hard obstacles – bridges, embankments – the collection of detritus is enough to put anyone off.  Yet birdlife of all sorts can be found along the length of the river, and for birdlife to thrive there need to be not just plants but fish and other animals upon which those birds can feed.  The river’s not perfect; but it’s a long way from dead.

Lake Burley Griffin, in Canberra, is another oft-disregarded body of water which sustains more life than many people credit it with.  Before I moved to Melbourne I’d delight in frequent sightings of Darters (Anhingidae) hunting in the lake’s depths, diving for long periods before emerging, but barely – their bodies below the surface like submarines, and just their thin and spring-loaded necks and heads held serpentine above the water (hence their other name, “Snake-bird”).  Grebes, too, could be seen bobbing on the surface of the lake, tiny like rubber ducks in an enormous bath; in winter they all looked alike, but come spring and summer the males began to moult into their breeding plumage and Hoary-headed Grebes (Poliocephalus poliocephalus) with their striped heads could easily be distinguished from Australasian Grebes (Tachybaptus novaehollandiae) with their yellow facial spot.

Darters and Grebes are both predators, swimming with great agility beneath the surface of the water after fish and smaller animals.  So, too, are cormorants, which are also numerous on Lake Burley Griffin – Great Cormorants (Phalacrocorax carbo); Little Black Cormorants (Phalacrocorax sulcirostris); Little Pied Cormorants (Microcarbo melanoleucos).  The very presence of these birds suggests some degree of health and life and vigour beneath the lake’s muddy surface, but speak to the average Canberran and they’ll swear blind that there’s nothing in that lake except Carp.  Bloody Carp.

They must be the most hated fish in Australia.  They’ve driven out the natives; they stir up mud; worst of all, they’re no good for eating (though try telling that to the Chinese-Australians who line Lake Burley Griffin with their fishing rods and baskets all year long).  Once many years ago when walking along a quiet edge of Lake Burley Griffin, around the fence of the Yarralumla Nursery towards Weston Park at whose tip the lake is at its narrowest, I came across a hand-written sign pinned to a tree.  A boast: the sign’s author proclaimed himself the Carp killer, the Carp executioner, the bane of all Carp; he offered a bounty on Carp; he cursed them beyond all bounds of reason.  He could, frankly, have been anybody in Canberra – or in Australia.

His mission to rid the world – or at least the lake – of Carp was destined to be futile.  There are unknowable numbers of them in the depths of those waters.  They must bump against Scrivener Dam and feel their way curiously along the concrete wall that binds their habitat, preventing it from gushing in torrents into the Molonglo River.  One spring I was walking along the lake, again in that same beech-dappled stretch of the bike path that leads from residential Yarralumla where I lived to the grand Yarralumla of Government House, when I was distracted by shallow splashing and sloshing in a willow-ringed pond to my right.  Carp, spawning: somehow I’d lived my entire life in that same small part of Canberra by the lake and never seen such a thing before.  The great fish writhed just beneath the pond’s surface, or occasionally broke it to splash and gulp and twist their pale bellies to the sun.  They chased each-other; they lunged at each-other; it was an ancient and unmistakably carnal ritual.

It was hard not to see it, also, as a kind of declaration of ownership; an ostentatious display of fecundity and vigour in a body of water usually regarded as stagnant and unsalvageable.  Carp can reproduce in phenomenal numbers: according to the New South Wales Department of Primary Industries, a six kilogram female carp can produce 1.5 million eggs.  Of course the great majority of these will die or be consumed before they even get a start in life, but even so – the potential is staggering.  No wonder the Carp, when I saw them in that small inlet of the lake, seemed to make the water quiver with the solidity of their flesh.

Early on a Saturday morning recently, just the day after that conversation about the Thames, I was riding my bike back home along the Merri Creek here in Melbourne.  Riding slowly beneath the Eastern Freeway, fifty metres or so upstream from where the creek flows into the Yarra, I was distracted by the plopping of water.  I stopped my bike, and leaned against the chain-link fence; there again, a splash sent ripples across the murky surface of the creek.  And again, and again.  I had an inkling what was causing it, but I wanted to see – to make sure.  (As I waited I recalled how, years earlier, I’d heard fish leaping unseen from the surface of a distant and very different river, the Lemmenjoki in the far north of Finland, on a still autumn evening when the last insects of the season had hatched in a great swarm above the water.)

In front of me a couple of people had stopped too, their attention also having been caught by the sound.  “Is it a Platypus?” the woman asked excitedly, perhaps with more hope than expectation.  I didn’t want to disappoint her, and for a moment I even dared to hope that she might be right – unlikely as it might have seemed to see Platypus at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, beneath the Eastern Freeway (yet Platypus, Ornithorhynchus anatinus, are known to live in the Yarra’s catchment, in creeks further out of the city; they may even live in Fairfield and Kew, only a few kilometres from where I and my fellow observers were stopped).

I quickly dismissed thoughts of a Platypus sighting from my mind; but I was quietly hopeful of something else: a Grebe, or a Cormorant, or some kind of swimming bird.  Some unusual Duck (Anatidae) – once, in the Tidbinbilla Nature Reserve outside Canberra, I thought I’d seen a Platypus, and been scarcely disappointed when the animal turned out to instead be the even rarer Musk Duck (Biziura lobata).

I was hoping for anything, really.  I was aware that November had slipped away from me, and with it another spring, and my annual chance to see the Sacred Kingfishers (Todiramphus sanctus) whose migratory return a few years ago to the Yarra River and its tributaries was hailed as a truly tangible sign of the waterways’ recovery and restored health.  Two years ago, in my first few months of living in this part of Melbourne, I’d seen several Kingfishers – but growing complacent with time I’d neglected to amble along the creek and the river the year after that, or this year.  Now they’ll have dispersed along the river, and begun nesting, and my chance to see them will probably have passed for twelve months.

Whatever was splashing in the water that day under the Eastern Freeway couldn’t have been a Kingfisher, of course, but it had to be something.  Some rare fish – just last week I noticed that the workmen constructing the long-projected fishway at Yarra Bend had finally packed up their construction site and departed – some aquatic mammal or diving bird.  Anything but Carp.

But Carp they were.  I’d known, really, that the creatures fussing the water couldn’t have been anything else.  When they eventually showed themselves they seemed to rise in their dozens, a great chain of them; and yet, to my astonishment and to the astonishment of the couple with whom I was gazing into the water, they were exceptionally beautiful.  There’s something stirring about seeing a creature utterly at home in its environment, and as those great fish turned their bellies to the sun just beneath the green surface of the water and rolled like a line of celebratory streamers downstream to the Yarra they were no less magnificent than any Platypus or Kingfisher.  They moved so languidly that even when one broke the surface it was with infinite grace and elegance.  They twirled and twined around each-other ecstatically; they barely seemed to exert any effort at all; and then, in an instant, they were gone again, sinking into the thick depths of the water.

I had to get home: I was returning from the market and I needed to get my groceries into the fridge.  My fellow observers turned away from the water.  None of us had seen what we had hoped to see; and yet I don’t think any of us, in that moment, wanted to see anything else but Carp.

Image sourced from http://www.dpi.nsw.gov.au/